


Northern Downpour

by lesbianiconjasontodd



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess, Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: Detective Story, F/F, F/M, Rescue Mission, Then All Bets Are Off, follow up for a lonely future ending, or at least there will be until i see charlotte, taking down the mafia can count as a date, theres probably more plot than romance in this, violence tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianiconjasontodd/pseuds/lesbianiconjasontodd
Summary: A lonely future becomes a little less lonely when three New Yorkers find a familiar face waiting for them in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, trouble seems to follow Miss Colvin no matter where she goes. (A follow up story for the Gotham Memoirs ending "A Lonely Future")Spoilers for Gotham Memoirs, obviously.
Relationships: Elizabeth Colvin/Charlotte Harris, Elizabeth Colvin/Edmund Davis, Elizabeth Colvin/Vittorio Puzo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

“Excuse me, miss. Have we met before?”

Some line. Working in the casino had given her a front row seat to the best pickups the whole of the United States had to offer, from the golden coast to her old home in New York, and this one not only misses its mark but doesn’t even make the list of most creative so far. In another life, she’d just keep walking, pretend she hadn’t heard or was in a rush somewhere. In another life, though, she’d never have come here in the first place.

“Not interested, thanks. You can try the roulette table for better luck,” she suggested without even glancing up from her purse. It had been a long day--a long year, really. The time she once had for sweet talkers spun down the drain around the same time her hope did.

A low voice coughed a little to grab for her attention again. “I don’t mean to bother. You only remind me of--”

“Clara Bow? Loretta Young? Or Jean Harlow, may she rest in peace.” She waved a hand in dismissal, rolling her eyes behind the curtain of her hair between them. “I’ve heard them all before, baby, and it’s as bad a start now as it was the first six times. Have a swell night.”

“Elizabeth Colvin.”

Lightning shot through her veins, numbing her fingertips without warning. Her heart thudded in her chest like a cuckoo clock with the door glued shut and twice as noisy. _This isn’t happening, this isn’t real, it’s all a dream and you’re about to wake up--_

“Aren’t you Miss Colvin?” She stood up suddenly, clutching her bag with white knuckles, and turn quickly to see the person speaking. To her surprise, it wasn't another of Juliano’s lackeys coming to take her to some new hellhole, but a different man. Paler, quieter, more solemn than anyone she'd seen since she was thrust into this glittering pit. That man from the hospital, from the street, from the theatre, from her old life where things made sense for at least a little while. Half her heart leapt for joy, for _hope_ , a feeling she thought had burned out long ago. But the other half, the wary, beaten, snarling half, kept her feet firmly planted in reality.

He was from the hospital--Mafia-run, or at least frequented when someone had to disappear. Assuming he’d really been there only to see his terrified sister, he’d also appeared on the street the night she was nearly killed before this whole mess began. Even if she chalked that up to unlikely coincidence, his presence at the theatre during the Mafia shootout--hells, his _participation_ in the Mafia shootout told her everything she needed to know about _that man_.

She stepped back, her head ducked to avoid eye contact. She stammered “N-no, sir. I’m terribly sorry, you must have made a mistake!” She shouldn’t have brushed him off so quickly, shouldn’t have made herself more noticeably by being brusque. If word got back to Juliano that she was taking his threats less than seriously in front of another so-called businessman, things could get very ugly very fast; she knew there were pits worse than this one he could hide her in and no amount of hope would bring her back from there.

The man before her frowned deeply. He let the silence linger a heartbeat too long, perhaps waiting for her to speak again, then sighed. “You’re probably right. There’s no way she’d be working in a place like this.” He sounded almost disappointed by her lie. For another long breath, he studied her face, but finally turned away, no hint of emotion in his features. “My apologies, miss. Good evening.”

She didn’t dare look back up until she felt certain he’d left the building. That was far too close a call; a silent prayer went up to whoever cared to listen that she’d be less than unmemorable by the end of the man’s stay. When her heart rate finally settled and the sound of her whirling anxieties faded to a dull roar, Elizabeth shut her purse and pushed open the casino doors to head back home.

She prayed to remain forgettable in the mind of Vittorio Puzo.

***

Vittorio blew a ring of cigarette smoke into the night air. Nevada had always been too hot for his tastes, but the Assembly host decided on the meeting place, and Juliano’s favorite city in the world besides New York had always been Las Vegas. Even with the cooler night creeping over the balcony ledge, Vitto found himself longing for the bitter chill of his chosen home.

The five families normally hated to be away from their main territory, but the past year had dug up some difficult times for too many of them, and a meeting this large was bound to draw even more attention after the media had suddenly taken an overwhelming interest in all things Mafia. Vitto knew who had started it; what he didn’t know is where she’d gone amid all the chaos. Like a hurricane, she’d blown through the city with no regard for the devastation she left in her wake, and like a hurricane, she’d destroyed herself in the process. No one seemed to know what had happened to the lovely Miss Colvin after writing that disastrous article--until now, of course, which was the entire reason for the current cigarette.

“You know, the air conditioning is running off Juliano’s tab,” Stella reminded him from the doorway. “You’d do him more harm and you more good if you’d bring the brooding inside.”

Vitto smiled around the last bit of his smoke. “Worried I’ll catch a cold?” he teased back.

“Worried you’ll have to peel me off the wall when I start sweating like a pig,” his sister retorted. “Seriously, Vitto. What’s eating you?”

He stubbed out the cigarette on the metal railing and watched the ash tumble to the street below. “I met someone at the casino tonight,” he finally admitted.

Stella hummed, coming to lean against the railing next to him. “My brother, making new friends? Quick, someone check Hell for frostbite!”

“More like discovering an old one.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Do you remember the day I brought you home from the Metro?”

“How could I forget,” she scoffed, any trace of amusement vanishing from her features. “Every last nurse and doctor in that joint can rot directly in your frozen hell. I’m still mad at you for taking so long to bust me out.”

“My pleasure. Do you remember the nurse we met that day? A new girl, told you she was an undercover reporter for the Sun?” Stella nodded slowly, brow creasing in confusion. “She really was a reporter. Elizabeth Colvin. She wrote that hit piece on Steven Harris and disappeared in all the mess afterward.”

“And?”

“She’s here. At the casino.”

Stella stared at him. “So? She moved to Vegas, picked up a new hobby.”

“She pretended not to know me, Stell. About jumped out of her skin when she saw me and immediately acted like she’d never seen me before in her life.”

“Really, Vitto? You met her in a nut house over a year ago and said maybe three words to her. She probably acted like she didn’t know you because she _doesn’t_ know you.”

He shook his head and insisted “She recognized me. I saw it. We met a couple times after the Metro too; I saved her life at one point.” _And she saved mine_ is what he didn’t tell her, but it echoed in his head anyway. She never had taken him up on his offer to help. Maybe that was why she’d ended up here.

Stella sighed, exasperated, and moved to go back inside. “I don’t know what you’re getting at here. So what if she remembers you? The poor girl’s likely trying to escape the mess she left behind in New York, and you’re a tall, brooding reminder of all that. I’d fake amnesia too.”

It didn’t feel right to him, any of it. A smart, reckless, brave woman like that running away from her problems and settling for a life as a Vegas showgirl? Even though he’d spent limited time with Miss Colvin, she didn’t strike him as the type. Something bigger was going on here, and he had every intention of finding out what before the Assembly closed and the mysterious woman vanished again into thin air.


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth stared hard at her roommate. “Coming from  _ where _ ?” she echoed, too stunned to use her own words.

Margaret rolled her eyes impatiently and spun in her chair to repeat herself. “You deaf today, Betty? I said the party tonight is comin’ from New York. All kinds of hotshots and brunos--even heard Juliano himself might drop by,” she confided with a sly grin. “You think he’s as handsome as he looks in the papers?”

Elizabeth’s hands clenched into fists around her skirt hem, both to stop the shaking and hide how they’d started sweating. “Handsome? He’s mafia, Peggy. Men like that are the reason we’re both sitting here and not back home where we belong.”

“So? Just ‘cause he’s mean don’t mean he’s not a looker.” The woman turned to face the mirror again. Swiping eyeliner across her lid, she continued, “I get you’ve still got them high city girl standards, but I’d be hard-pressed to turn down a man that rich.”

“We’re showgirls and card sharks,” she reminded her, looking back at her own reflection. Empty eyes and red lips gleamed back at her reproachfully; a new look for a new life. “Men that rich don’t care if we turn them down.” Even as she said it, she remembered turning down the man from last night and the look on his face when he turned to leave without asking again. Vittorio Puzo. At least this explained what he was doing in Vegas. In their brief acquaintance, she’d never asked after his profession, and he’d never offered it, but she didn’t need to be an investigative reporter to put the pieces together. For him to be here at the same time rumors began swirling that Juliano was making an appearance? They had to work together, which meant she couldn’t, under any circumstance, let him know who she really was. Vittorio was not a friend here. He was just another nameless, faceless villain that created hellholes like this one for people who got in their way. She’d already made that mistake once.

Margaret finished off her lipstick and smacked them in the mirror to check her lines, batting her lashes and practicing her sweetest look, possibly to use on Juliano should the rumors prove real. “You know, if you’re lookin’ for an honest man to shine on you, I got a couple numbers you can try.”

She tossed a bowtie over her shoulder, just missing the top of Elizabeth’s head. It landed in the middle of her makeup table, startling the woman out of her thoughts. She glared back in the mirror and looped the fabric across her neck. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Good. Honest men are a myth anyway. Meet you out there, dollface?”

Elizabeth forced her most inviting smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Juliano’s casino, The Roman Lily, never lacked a crowded room, and Saturday night proved it. Elizabeth could hardly make her way through to her table, dodging strangers and waiters alike, one eye tracking Margaret’s bobbing bunny ears headpiece to make sure she got to her own table without incident. They’d been paired together as roommates by chance, Margaret’s previous partner disappearing the night before Elizabeth’s arrival, and they’d stuck to that ever since. The other girls called them Peggy and Betty, dynamic duo; they tag-teamed performances, rowdy tables, creepy customers, and anything else that came their way, always watching out for each other as the only constant in a constantly changing landscape. The woman felt certain she’d never have survived all this time without her friend by her side.

Distracted as she was by watching Margaret, she forgot her own movements and ran right into someone’s back. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” she exclaimed, grabbing her own headpiece before it tumbled to the floor and became lost forever underfoot.

The man turned quickly, catching her arm to steady her. “Whoa there! You alright?”

“Just dandy,” she assured him, faking a brilliant smile. The man stared at her a minute longer than polite, giving her time to pause on his concerned eyes. Was he--of course not. He couldn’t possibly be. “Alright yourself?” she asked, speaking loud to be heard over the music and voices.

He shook himself, blinking hard like he was trying to wake himself from a dream. “Just dandy,” he echoed, grinning back. “Call me Carl Smith, doll.”

A fake name, but Elizabeth was used to them by now. How many men wanted to be caught frequenting gambling tables on the weekends? “I prefer Betty to doll,” she replied, “but you can call me anything you’d like. Mind escorting me to my table, Mr. Smith? I’d hate to knock over any other gentlemen before my shift even starts.”

His brows raised, finally taking in my full costume. “You work here! Now I’ve made you late. How can I make it up to you?”

“Well, after I make it to my table, you can buy me a drink.” She wasn’t allowed to drink on the clock, of course, but flirting like this was part of the job description, and he at least seemed gentlemanly enough to not take advantage of it. He nodded and offered her his arm.

Carmen, the girl on shift at blackjack before her, rolled her eyes as they approached. “Should have known you’d find a man before being on time, Betty. Can you tear yourself away long enough to swap me out?”

Elizabeth flushed pink. A glance at the man beside her showed his ears had warmed a few shades as well, which was honestly kind of adorable. Still not her type, but endearing all the same.

“Got another game on the way?” she asked instead of acknowledging either of them.

“Just finished, but more should be incoming. You heard the rumors, right?” Shifting her gaze to the man beside me, she leaned in and whispered “Boss is bringing a few friends in this week. Got a tip he’d be making the rounds tonight. Show off the merchandise, you know?”

She knew all too well what that meant. She nodded quickly, slipping her hand away from her companion’s arm. “Tell Johnny hi for me,” she teased, sliding into the booth in Carmen’s place. The man watched the two say their goodbyes before taking a seat.

“So,” he began casually, “the boss is coming. Somebody I should avoid?”

She faked another smile, sympathetic to his curiosity. “No need to worry about getting me in trouble, Mr. Smith. Keeping guests entertained is part of my job; if anything, you sticking around an empty table makes me look better.”

He laughed. “I’m certain that’s not true, but let’s pretend it is so I don’t have to go.”

She giggled back, but that laugh bothered something in the back of her mind. Why was he so damn familiar? The eyes, the easy laugh, the harmless charm behind every question he asked--who was he, really? Not a Mafia man, clearly, but something else she knew, someone her old self would have noticed and placed immediately.

“Got to be a big deal to see the big man in here,” he commented. “Does he bring friends often?”

“Not much, from what I hear. He’s only come once the whole year I’ve been working, and stayed in his room till he left.” She cocked an eyebrow, picking up a set of cards to shuffle while they talked. “You know the boss?”

“Just rumors. You know how the papers like to tattle on the big guys.”

Her shuffling paused just a second. Newspapers? From here? Reading the papers every chance she could kept her sane, and she’d never once seen Juliano’s name anywhere in them. How would this man know him from the papers unless--

_ Of course _ .  _ He’s from New York _ .

She kept the cards moving, glad she’d sat down before panic liquefied her bones. “Wish we saw stories as interesting as that around here. You wanna tell me a few stories, Mr. Smith?”

He hummed. “I’m not much of a storyteller. My friends say I’m too interested in facts to be much good at fiction,” he lamented.

_ Reporter _ . Too close to home, far too close. Any closer and he’d figure her out, assuming he hadn’t already. “You’re in luck, then. We’ve got so much fiction here, we wouldn’t know facts if they came in and introduced themselves.”

“You must be an exceptional storyteller in that case. Perhaps you should tell a few, Miss Betty.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of several suited men approaching the table. Thank the heavens, or whoever else might be watching her luck. “That’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.” She smiled apologetically. “Interested in a few rounds, gentlemen?” she called out to the group.

The shorter man grinned, striding confidently to the next open seat. “I’m in. Boss! Whatever my cut is this month, I’m puttin’ it all here. You with me, boys?”

His group moved close enough for Elizabeth to identify their leader and rethink her whole strategy. A New York reporter pumping her for information was one thing, a problem she could easily handle, or at least easily distract him from investigating her more closely. But running into the same New York Mafia boss two nights in a row when he was already suspicious of her? No part of her could handle that, especially not while she was already juggling Mr. Smith.

Mr. Puzo took the seat at the end, right next to the frowning Mr. Smith. He nodded to her, his expression carefully unconcerned. Their eyes locked; her hands started shaking again.  _ So much for forgetting all about me _ , she thought grimly.


	3. Chapter 3

The not-reporter shuffled the deck of cards, her gaze fully averted from his to take in the rest of the table. Vittorio did his best not to stare at her; how had he not recognized her the moment he saw her? Even with her hair a new color and her accent scrubbed out, he found his mind placing her by her hands alone.

Long, delicate fingers with short nails at the end, moving so fast around the cards he could scarcely keep track; small palms with fading calluses from farm work and a thicker callus at the base of her right wrist from long writing sessions; shiny scar tissue on the back of her knuckles from some fight, and more hidden just under the cuffs of her sleeves around her wrist that looked more like leftover rope burn. That was new. The Miss Colvin he’d known a year ago was softer than that, had probably never seen a fight beyond what she reported. This woman knew more, lived more, cut back more. The way she’d spoken to him the other night would never have occurred to her back in New York.

“I’ll apologize for this lot in advance, miss,” Vittorio said. “They never learned to play a game without cheating. Especially Nino.”

“Never cheated a penny from a prince, Boss,” Nino insisted.

Eddie scoffed. “Only ‘cause you’d already robbed ‘im blind before.”

“They’re soiling my good name, miss, you gotta believe me!”

Miss Colvin smiled at Nino with a feigned ease. “I’m afraid you’ll have to prove them wrong to set the record straight. Any cheaters will have to deal directly with me before collecting their winnings.”

The stranger beside Vittorio laughed. “Now there’s a threat not to take lightly,” he teased. “One clean game comin’ right up, Miss Betty.”

Betty? A pseudonym, but not a very good one if she was looking to hide her identity. Either she didn’t care or she didn’t choose it; given what little he knew about her situation, he could guess both held some truth. In any case, he wasn’t about to question her in front of the whole casino. “We’ll see if Nino here remembers the rules,” he added with a wink in his lieutenant's direction.

As the man sputtered, the stranger held out his hand to Vittorio. “Carl Smith. You in town very long?” he asked casually.

Vittorio shook the offered hand, but kept his features blank of any telling emotion. “Just the week. Business vacation.”

“Poor soul. The only business I have these days is vacation.”

Miss Colvin cleared her throat. “Starting bets, gentlemen?”

Nino and Eddie slid a few chips in, cajoling each other about placing small bets. Mr. Smith did the same, though Vittorio noted he made sure to bet just higher than the others. He matched the stranger’s bet and Miss Colvin dealt them each two cards. Right away, Nino won with an ace and jack, drawing a holler from Eddie and laughter from Mr. Smith.

“Hit me,” Eddie said with a wide grin. No way I’m letting Nino get away with these lies.” His bravado earned him a three of diamonds and a total seventeen points. The stranger stayed, already at nineteen, and Vittorio took one, bringing him to twenty.

Miss Colvin revealed her hand: exactly seventeen. “Sorry, sir,” she told Eddie, “looks like Nino’s got you this time.” The man yelled again about cheating, but relinquished his chips easily enough. Technically, neither had been paid yet, so it was all his money they were gambling anyway.

Winnings were dispersed and cards were dealt again. The game continued amicably for several rounds until Eddie ran out of chips and had to withdraw. Nino followed soon after, despite his early success. They wandered off to find other sport, leaving the three to themselves. Just as Vittorio was ready to pull out and try to catch her alone tomorrow night, the stranger started up a conversation again with Miss Colvin.

“You’re awful good with the cards, Miss Betty. You ever played from this side of the table?”

Miss Colvin looked away, adjusting her ridiculous rabbit ear headpiece. “I’m not much for games of chance, Mr. Smith. Chronic bad luck,” she confided apologetically.

“A dame as pretty as you? Couldn’t be.” He feigned shock, clutching his chest and gaping at her dramatically. To his credit, the act made her laugh and brought her back out of whatever dark memory her mind had turned to. “Strangely enough,” he continued with the same roguish grin, “I suffer from an overabundance of rather excellent luck. Any chance we could swap for a while? I’m dying to know what burnt coffee and sour grapes taste like. Stay.”

“Hit,” Vittorio said, and Miss Colvin slid him a nine. Nineteen points to Mr. Smith’s twenty, a reversal of their roles at the start of their game.

“Tell you what,” the woman replied. “If you win this last round, you can have all the bad luck I’ve got. If the house wins, you give me your good luck.”

Before the man could accept, Vittorio cut in. “And if I win?”

She blinked at him, surprised. “Interested in some luck of your own, Mr. Puzo?”

He considered. “I have plenty of both already. What would you say to dinner?”

“Wait, that’s an option?” Mr. Smith laughed. “Damn the grapes, I’ll take dessert!”

Miss Colvin rolled her eyes, but Vittorio could see the tension back in her shoulders. Her long fingers lingered on her face down card, considering the odds. “Alright,” she finally agreed. “Should Mr. Puzo win, we’ll go to dinner. Should Mr. Smith win, we’ll have dessert. Should I win--you both pay for my girl Peggy and I to get both alone. Do we have a deal?”

The men glanced at each other, then back at her. “Deal,” Mr. Smith replied. Vittorio nodded his agreement.

She flipped her card. Sixteen points. She lifted the card on top of the deck and placed it over her hand. The three of hearts grinned back, mocking him with the damning confirmation that dinner with the mysterious dealer had been one prayer too many.

“A clean sweep!” Mr Smith crowed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Better luck next time, pal. Might I collect my winnings, say--tomorrow night?”

“Only if you promise to be the perfect gentleman,” Miss Colvin warned him. A new group approached from the opposite end of her table, prompting both men to stand and vacate. The not-reporter swept the remaining chips and abandoned cards behind her booth. “I wish you more luck at another table, Mr. Puzo,” she told him, her playful demeanor slipping back behind her curtain of professionalism. He nodded politely and thanked her for the game, but his heart felt like a dead weight inside his ribs as he walked away.

Eddie and Nino caught up with him at the entrance. “Can’t believe you lost to a tourist, boss,” Eddie lamented. “I ain’t ever seen you take the bad end of a bet.”

“I gotta say, that fella seemed real shady to me,” Nino admitted, glancing back through the gilded doors. “Think he fixed the deck?”

Vittorio considered both statements as he pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. “No,” he decided, lighting the end, “I don’t believe he did. Kid’s probably right; he’s got damn good luck.”

***

The moment both men turned their backs to her, Elizabeth slipped the three of hearts back into the extra deck under the table. She hadn’t intended to cheat, but when Mr. Puzo added dinner to the betting, she didn’t have time to form a safer plan. A dessert date with a New York reporter didn’t bode well for her personal safety either--that was a problem for tomorrow. As familiar as she’d become with danger these last few years, she’d dodged enough bullets for the day.

She smiled invitingly at the incoming group taking their seats. “Opening bets, gentlemen?” she asked and began shuffling once again.


	4. Chapter 4

The agreed-upon time for her dessert date with Carl Smith found Elizabeth finally wearing something other than bunny ears in a public setting. Margaret had helped fill in the extensive gaps in her Las Vegas wardrobe and dressed her up in all the class and glamor she could stand before escaping to wait at the casino’s entrance for her ride. Just as she started to wonder if Mr. Smith had forgotten their deal so soon, a gaudy blue automobile roared to the curb beside her.

“Miss Betty!” Mr. Smith exclaimed, clambering out of the driver’s side. “You look outrageously good in that color, did you know? I hope I’m not late.”

She let him take her hand, turning red at the kiss he brushed across her knuckles. “Not at all, Mr. Smith. I see you prefer the subtle approach,” she teased, gesturing to the car. 

Now it was his turn to flush, his ears pinker than his cheeks. “I’ll admit to having gone a bit overboard for a first impression. Can’t blame me, though, not when you pull out looks like that.”

Elizabeth smoothed a hand over her skirt, flustered despite having heard similar compliments a hundred times since coming here. The dress was borrowed from one of the Roman Lily’s showgirls, a fashionably sweet number a California beau had bought her: a striped sky blue overcoat and skirt paired with a loose-fitting yellow top, an off-white cloche and matching gloves, and a string of pearls down to her navel. She felt elegant and pretty, but mostly relieved to wear something other than her revealing dealer’s uniform.

“Had I known I’d match the car, I may have reconsidered our deal,” she said, but took his arm and let him tuck her in the passenger side seat. “Where exactly are you taking me tonight?” she asked when he slid in beside her.

“How do you feel about ice cream?” he asked rather than responding.

They soon pulled to a stop beside a little ice cream shop and bakery several blocks away from the main strip. It felt calmer here, quieter. The few couples walking down the street chatted pleasantly, and the breeze on her face smelled like Spring air rather than cigar smoke. She didn’t bother strangling the pleased smile that stole across her face. Juliano couldn’t see her now, couldn’t watch for weaknesses or tells that she wasn’t broken, not entirely. Of course she’d still have to go back to that place, but in this exact moment? She couldn’t have cared less.

Mr. Smith laughed lightly as he watched her face light up. “It’s different to what you’re used to, of course,” he said, “but I thought this might be a welcome break.”

“You have no idea.” Elizabeth breathed in deeply one last time, then turned to her companion resolutely. “You’ll have to guide me a bit,” she warned him. “I’m not accustomed to many sweets these days, but I trust your opinion completely.”

“Now there’s a vote of confidence. Not to worry, a very good friend of mine works here; she’s a master in reading tastes. Shall we?” he offered her his arm once again and the pair walked into the shop.

Right away, the little place blasted Elizabeth with the comforting smell of warm bread fresh from the oven and the low hum of the icebox behind the counter. A young woman stood at the till with her back to the door, waving without looking up from her task. Her short pink dress and tidy white apron reminded the woman a little of her former life and a similar costume she’d used to sneak into places she wasn’t supposed to be. Whether from the memory or the worker’s strange behavior, Elizabeth’s gut twisted just a little with familiar nerves.

“I’ll be in the washroom a moment,” she told Mr. Smith with an easy smile. “Order for me?”

He bowed dramatically. “I eagerly await your return.”

Barely waiting to hear his response, Elizabeth locked herself in the washroom and settled with her back against the door, breathing heavy with the oncoming panic attack. One odd clerk in an ice cream shop of all places was not going to get her killed. What would be the point of Juliano going through all this just to catch her in the wrong? And what had she done that would pull him away from whatever business had brought all these dangerous men from New York in the first place?

She thought back to all her activities and actions before this madness began, but nothing stood out beyond Mr. Puzo recognizing her out of the blue. Had that been the cause of it all? Had Vittorio Puzo seen a missing reporter leaving a Las Vegas casino and told a fellow Mafia man how she’d responded with defiance before fear? She didn’t know enough about the somber man to say if that seemed out of character. Why hadn’t she learned more about him when she had the chance?

The only way out of the building was through the front door. Carl Smith would certainly notice her leaving; besides, he had something to do with the mess she’d landed in too. Why else would a reporter take interest in a gambling house across the country? He’d already lied to her about his name; anything else he said was instantly suspect. Most likely, he brought her here to get information on the Roman Lily’s activities in a place she wouldn’t consider dangerous, but his next move was hidden from her whirring mind.

Someone knocked at the door, startling her suddenly away from it. “Miss Betty? Everything alright?” Mr. Smith asked from the other side.

Elizabeth clutched her overcoat tighter to her chest. “Just dandy, Mr. Smith. Be out in a second,” she called back.

The man paused. “No rush. I’m grabbing a smoke by the car--promise you won’t abandon me through the window?”

She forced herself to laugh, trying to sound charmed. “You have my word, sir.”

She listened for his footsteps walking away, then the ringing bell over the door to signal his departure. Once she felt certain he’d gone, Elizabeth unclipped her heels and stuffed them in her purse, unlocked the door, and started to run.

Two hands grabbed her arms the second she cleared the doorway and shoved her back in, all the way to the far wall. Moving one hand to cover her mouth, Mr. Smith kicked the door closed behind him. “Finally,” he sighed, relaxing just a fraction. “Alone at last, huh, Colvin?”

She kicked him as hard as she could in the stomach and threw the gasping man off her. Pulling a slender pocket knife from her purse, she pushed him against the sink and pressed the edge under his jacket to his side. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “Do you work for Juliano?”

“Colvin,” the man groaned, “it’s me, it’s Davis! Edmund Davis, remember?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s a lie. Edmund Davis is--”

“--attempting a rescue mission of his friend and former colleague from the Gotham Times. Elizabeth Colvin, missing eleven and a half months, last seen being grabbed from her apartment and driven off to no one knows where. Tell me how I can prove it, I’ll do whatever you need to know I’m not lying.”

Elizabeth looked him over, finally settling on his hair. His hat had fallen off when she shoved him, revealing mussed brown hair with short blond roots and a small packet of folded papers tied in the top of the fedora. Something that looked very like a badge poked out the side. Keeping the knife on him, she stooped to grab the packet and flipped the badge over.

_ Edmund Davis, reporter, Gotham Times PRESS PASS _

The photo was unmistakably the man before her, the grin the same, the hair lighter and neater, but still him, always him. How had she not recognized him immediately?

Her knife skittered across the floor where she dropped it to hug him tight. “Davis,” she sobbed, all bravado leaking out of her. “You found me.”

Davis grabbed her waist to steady her against him, hugging her close to his chest. His breathing sounded ragged when he confessed “I thought I’d never see you again. When we found out you were missing--”

“We?”

“Gotham Times. Me, Kane, every copywriter and damn intern in the building, we were all looking for you. Diane Boseman said she told the whole team to get out of town, but your place looked ransacked, like you’d gone with a fight.” He pulled back just enough to flash her a smile. “Besides, you never came to say goodbye. You really think I’d let you ditch New York without one of those?”

Elizabeth laughed and pushed him lightly away. “Of course not. I was on my way to the office that day, to say goodbye and see you all one last time, but….” The smile slid off her face, her stomach twisting again.

“But that’s when they grabbed you,” Davis finished for her. She nodded, unable to look him in the eye. “Have you been here the whole time?” he asked.

“Most of it. I spent a week in Juliano’s mansion while they made me tell them everything I knew about Harris and their organization. Then a few weeks at one of his brothels downtown, Paradisio? They couldn’t get me to play nice there, and one of the men recognized me, so they moved me out here pretty fast.”

Davis nodded, his expression drawn and serious as she recounted her own disappearance. “That’s how I found you,” he said. “The man who recognized you worked for my parents back in the day. Before they--he told me about you hours before they found him. By the time we raided the place, you were gone and Juliano had cleared out.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face and Elizabeth could see the fatigue he’d been holding back; how many sleepless nights had she caused him? She took his hand, smiling gently up at her friend. “But you did find me,” she insisted. “I didn’t even know you were looking.”

“When I saw you in the casino,” he continued, “and you didn’t recognize me, I thought it was part of the act. I figured someone was watching you, so I played up the dumb rich guy thing--”

“--that was an act?” she asked innocently, eager to prompt a real laugh from him.

He rolled his eyes, but rewarded her with a chuckle. “Yeah, maybe a little close to home. By the way, that last round? I saw you cheat, you fox. Did my good looks and boundless charm win you over even with the new look?”

She reached up and ruffled his short brown locks. “I prefer the blond, really. Brunet Davis will take some getting used to,” she admitted.

“He certainly isn’t sticking around. I’m washing this crap out the second we get back home,” he vowed.

Elizabeth shook her head. “I’m not going back. Not right now, anyway. Davis, they are watching me; Juliano doesn’t trust me, or at least doesn’t believe I’m scared enough to play along. If I leave now, they’ll only come back when we least expect it, and this time I’m not ending up in a swanky casino.” Saying it left a sour taste in her mouth, but it was the truth. Juliano wouldn’t be satisfied with a year’s worth of trauma. When people left his side, they usually left in a body bag.

Davis nodded, serious again. “We’ll figure something out. I’m not leaving you here, Colvin. We didn’t come all this way to say hello and goodbye.”

She arched a brow at his word choice. “We? Who else is here?”

Rather than answer, he handed her the discarded pocket knife, dusted off his hat and papers, and directed her back to the main shop. “Just you wait,” he chuckled. “I’m only the start of this party train.”

Back in the bakery and ice cream shop, the door was locked and all the windows had been covered by thick curtains. The young woman from before untied the last one, draping the room in soft lighting, illuminated by the glow from the oven and the glimpses of sunshine reflecting off the floor. Davis let the washroom door close behind them and the woman turned around to greet them.

“Hiya, Colvin,” Charlotte said softly.

Elizabeth burst into tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlotte knew how to operate under pressure. She lived her life in a series of firsts: first female aviator to fly across the Atlantic; first female engineering student at Imperial University; first daughter of Councilman Harris’ political career; first lesbian to come out on the record with a reporter--although that part of the interview remained carefully cut from public view. As the so-called poster child for the American dream, she knew very well how to take any situation in hand, no matter the circumstances, and turn it in her favor with a quirky grin.

The first she was most proud of in this moment, however, was first to catch Miss Colvin when her trembling knees finally gave out from shock.

The woman looked up at her from Charlotte’s arms, black mascara tears streaming down her cheeks, and smiled shakily. “Always the white knight,” she managed between hiccuping breaths.

It suddenly occurred to Charlotte the woman had been crying before leaving the washroom, and seeing her with zero warning in such a state may have made things worse. She helped her find her balance again, awkwardly brushing her off like her own father used to when she cried as a child. “I hardly think this getup counts as armor,” she finally responded, “but I do keep finding you in distress, so maybe you’re onto something there.”

“You’re not--mad at me?” Elizabeth asked, hesitant and wary. It hurt to hear her so unsure of herself, so unlike the quiet confidence she’d come to admire in her friend since their reintroduction last year. Something terrible must have happened to make her this different. Wincing, she recalled the part she played in those dreadful days before Elizabeth’s disappearance. Given their final conversation, of course she’d be apprehensive of seeing her again.

Charlotte did her best to look comforting, swallowing any lingering hurt. “Of course not. It’s in the past. What’s important now is that you’re okay and coming home,” she insisted. They would talk about the messier details later.

The woman visibly relaxed. “I’m not coming home,” she admitted. “Not yet, at least. I don’t know how much you both know about him, but Juliano is not a forgiving man. He’s killed girls for less than escaping. If you’re really breaking me out, we have to take care not to catch his attention.”

Davis frowned. “Too late for that, it seems. That Puzo fellow was watching you like a hawk all last night, which means other families are taking an interest, which means Juliano will start getting possessive.”

“Families?”Elizabeth leaned against the icebox with an inquisitive expression, something like her reporter’s face from before. “You mean Mr. Puzo isn’t working with him?”

“I thought they were both Italian mafia,” Charlotte chipped in.

“Yes and no. They are Italian mafia, but two different families, Juliano and Maranzano. Vittorio Puzo took over the Maranzano family a few decades back, moved from lackey to lieutenant to underboss uncommonly fast and eventually took over after the hit on Salvatore Maranzano. Nobody even complained or put in a competing bid. Word on the street is Juliano’s the one who called for the Maranzano hit,” he explained when both women didn’t speak up. “So they may be associates, but they sure as hell aren’t partners.”

Elizabeth hummed, looking conflicted. “What’s he doing in Vegas with him, then? The showgirls were hearing talk about loads of New York gunslingers showing up this week for some kind of meeting; seems strange he’d invite a clear enemy.”

“Stranger still that he’d come,” Charlotte agreed. She peeked out the curtains at the sunny street, unable to shake the sensation someone was watching.

Davis sat down and took out a small pad of paper, flipping the messy pages to one with large, urgent writing. “I thought so too, but coming here and actually seeing it for myself--how much do you dames know about the Italian mafia?” he asked, interrupting himself.

Charlotte admitted “Not much” at the same time Elizabeth said “Don’t call us dames.” She flashed her a surprised grin, to which the other woman turned away so she wouldn’t catch the blush spreading across her cheeks.

“It’s like this.” The man gestured to the seats across from him and started outlining names on a new page. “You’ve got five main Italian American gangs. Salvatore Maranzana started a war between all the smaller gangs a few years back and came out the winner, and he organized the five into what we see now: Maranzano, Profaci, Mangano, Juliano, and Gagliano. A year after all this goes down, Juliano puts out a hit on Salvatore, effectively taking control and placing his family at the head.” He drew circles around each name and labeled the group  _ The Commission _ . He then drew a sharp line through Maranzana. “Puzo takes over here. Only boss I’ve seen with any kind of moral code beyond their own rules. He and Juliano go at it for a few years, nothing too serious, mostly what you saw in your article on the two tallest buildings, Colvin.”

“That was a mafia thing?” She squinted at Davis’ chaotic handwriting. “He was there that day,” she said thoughtfully.

“Vittorio Puzo?” Davis clarified. When she nodded, he stared at her hard as if waiting for more, but she had nothing left to say. He sighed and pressed on. “After the mess last year with Councilman Harris and Diane Boseman--sorry for bringing it up, but that’s kind of where all this started. After that PR nightmare, Juliano goes to ground, taking anyone who knows anything with him. The task force disbands, the nosy reporter disappears, the councilman wins the election under public scrutiny and winds up dead within the season.”

Elizabeth’s gaze swung to Charlotte, but she kept her expression coolly blank. “They reported it as a suicide,” she explained, her tone thoroughly devoid of emotion. “No way a suicide leaves that much blood. Davis heard from an informant Juliano put out a hit.”

She tightened her grip around her purse. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”

“Don’t be. He was a scumbag. You tried to tell me and you’re here because I didn’t listen.” She hesitated to apologize in return and the moment passed in awkward silence.

Davis watched them avoid eye contact for a moment before turning back to his notepad. “What this all leads into is the Juliano family operating without a boss and the Commission operating without a head. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Harris, but any reporter in the gutters can see how bad it’s getting. I think all this is Juliano’s way of coming back from the proverbial dead before an underboss or even Puzo can get a foot in the door.” He drew a line from each name into the center and wrote  _ Assembly _ . “That’s the goal,” he concluded. “An assembly of the five families to either return Juliano to power or line up Puzo for a coup.”

Elizabeth laughed wearily. “That’s why he’s watching me,” she said. “Puzo knows who I am. I thought he was working with Juliano to keep an eye on me, but that’s not it at all, is it?”

The group considered it. Even Charlotte could see the logical next step for the man after discovering someone with her skills and knowledge already placed within his enemy’s organization. Elizabeth had made herself a very dangerous woman, even if she didn’t know it, even if nobody knew it until this very second.

The aviator broke the quiet first. “So to get you out from under Juliano’s thumb, we need to get on the Manzano family’s good side. Davis, didn’t you say last night Puzo fancied her?” Both reporters startled, Davis with a voice of concern, Elizabeth with scoffing doubt.

“There’s no guarantee he would work with us based on that alone--”

“He does not and even if he did, I would never--”

“She’s at risk just on the sidelines, we can’t just drop her in the middle of an actual gang war--”

“I barely know the man, but I know men like him. How can we trust--”

Charlotte slammed a palm on the table and yelled “He’s our best option! Don’t you want to come home, Elizabeth? Don’t you want to see your family and friends again, have a life you actually want to live? Davis, you promised when you brought me out here you would do whatever it took, but working with this guy is just one step too far?”

The man shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t get it, Harris, you don’t know these guys--”

“You just said he’s the only boss you’ve seen with a moral code! If any one of them is going to help us, he’s the one to bet on.” She turned her focus solely on Elizabeth beside her. “He’s interested, isn’t he?” she demanded.

She shifted in her seat, her gaze flickering between the notepad and the door. “Maybe? I don’t….” She trailed off and glanced at Davis. Some little piece of Charlotte’s heart cracked at that look in her eyes but she kept her mouth shut and waited. “Danger aside. What are the odds he helps us?” she asked him.

He opened his mouth to say something sharp, then closed it again at Charlotte’s glare. After a long moment, he answered stiffly “There’s a chance. If the family really is planning a coup at the Assembly, you can give them the upper hand. But it’s a bad idea,” he added, cutting Charlotte off.

“It’s like she said,” Elizabeth replied. “He’s our best option. If working with Vittorio Puzo can get us all home safely--I mean, it can’t get worse, can it?”

“It can,” Davis insisted. “Frankly, it’s a miracle we found you alive; I’d rather not change that before we’ve properly said hello yet.”

“I get it. Trust me, the risk isn’t nothing to me, but I can’t stay here and wait for them to forget about me or use me up or kill me. Not now that I’ve seen a way out.”

The trio fell silent. After no further arguments, the woman stood, smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, and nodded at Davis. “Would you mind driving me back? I’ve got a shift in an hour and they don’t give us sick days.” She smiled weakly at Charlotte, saying earnestly “It was incredible seeing you again. Can I--will I see you again?”

“I hope so,” she replied. She found herself teasing “Maybe I’ll come around the casino, see what all this fuss is about Betty.”

Elizabeth blushed bright red. “I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want you, of all people, seeing me like that.” She waved goodbye and the two walked to Davis’ flashy car, arm in arm like a giggling couple. Charlotte didn’t move from her chair for an hour, her mind frozen on the reporter’s bright eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long absence, lads, have a longer vitto chapter to make up for it!

Vittorio didn’t know what brought him back to the casino for a third night in a row. He wasn’t a heavy gambler, but he felt drawn to the blackjack table where he knew she’d be, at once eager to see her and praying she didn’t show. She had every right to fear him, particularly after what Juliano put his girls through. Still, he hoped she would somehow see he was different from the typical bosses and not run before he even put out his hand.

Perhaps it was a distorted, biased view, but Vittorio prided himself on being both a respected boss and an upstanding citizen. The former head of the Maranzano family, Salvatore, had begun the tradition in American mafias of hosting legitimate businesses alongside his shadier prospects, partly to keep up appearances with lawmen and partly as a fallback plan should something unexpected disrupt his plans. The old man enjoyed feeling like an honest, hardworking taxpayer, often telling his protégé “We’re businessmen, Vitto, and more upright than those thieves on Wall Street.” Vittorio may not have taken every word of his as gospel, but there was a reason his name inspired loyalty even after they laid him to rest.

If Maranzano could see him now, he hoped he’d approve of the path they followed now. Revenge offered a stellar motivation for most crimes in their line of work, and Juliano had gone too long without backlash for assassinating another boss. As successor, Vittorio knew the duty fell to him. Eye for an eye and all that. It had never been personal, not on his end.

Standing here in his casino, the lights and smells and sounds of Juliano’s choosing surrounding him, felt like a betrayal to his upbringing. He loosened his necktie and distracted himself with Stella’s sudden appearance on his arm.

“What,” he said softly, “do you think you’re doing?”

She smiled innocently, fluffing up her bobbed curls. “Trying my luck,” she replied. “Think I’d be any good at roulette?”

“Who brought you? When did you buy that dress?”

“Antonio and this morning. Don’t you like it, Vitto?” She stepped out and twisted the tasseled skirt around, moving to catch the lights on her costume pearls.

Vittorio sighed. He never understood why she liked those cheap plastic beads when he had the money for real ones. “I liked Antonio. What did you do to him to hitch a ride?”

“What, like my winning personality isn’t enough?” she scoffed. “Any personality in that car is a breath of fresh air compared to your moody ass. Have you worked out what you’re gonna say to her?”

“I thought I’d start with hello,” he retorted, scanning the room for Elizabeth. She changed her hair so frequently back in New York to sell her various disguises that he wasn’t actually sure what she might look like tonight. He focused in on one blonde bob weaving around patrons, her hands fluttering up to steady the ridiculous bunny ears perched precariously high.

Stella followed his gaze and shook her head, sighing. “Those poor girls,” she murmured. “You know I like to show a little skin myself, but this is just humiliating, isn’t it? Juliano couldn’t care less about any one of them, and he still wants to dress them up for his own entertainment. Men like him make me sick,” she said fiercely.

Vittorio silently agreed, but squeezed her hand on his arm as a warning. “This is his place, Stell,” he said in a low tone. “He’s got eyes and ears all over. We can’t afford to slip out of his good graces yet.”

She hummed, still angry, and grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server to cool her nerves. “Let’s just find your lady friend and get out of here. You see her yet?”

He wanted to remind her that he’d left her home for a reason, but she was already here and they didn’t have much time. “Maybe. I’ll check out her previous tables; ask some of the girls if they’ve seen Betty or where we can find her.” His sister nodded and blended into the crowd, taking on her party girl persona to not stick out as badly as he obviously did. He kept an eye on her for a moment--he’d already lost her once before. Heaven help him if she disappeared again.

The blackjack table was currently manned by a curvy redhead who ignored him completely when he asked about Elizabeth, gesturing vaguely in the direction of roulette while continuing to deal out her next game. A tiny blonde and a tall brunette ran the roulette games and both claimed not to know her well enough to say. Several others pointed him all around the casino before he arrived back where he started and realized how thoroughly he’d been run around.

Approaching the blackjack table again, he smiled cooly at the smirking redhead and sat down. “You’re Peggy, aren’t you? She mentioned you last time we spoke,” he explained.

She laughed. “She told me. Said if a tall man dressed for a funeral came in to give her a heads up. The tour of the place was my idea.” She expertly shuffled a deck and fanned it out for him. “Wanna see a card trick?” she asked him. “Betty’ll be out soon; I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you had a little while you wait.”

The man considered her cautiously. Back home, he did his best to avoid casual conversation outside business interests, which generally included flirting. Suddenly faced with the opportunity, he found he had no idea how to respond. He nodded silently, praying Miss Colvin showed up soon.

Peggy removed nine cards from the fan, the ace through the nine of hearts. She showed him the cards in order and stacked them while explaining the trick. “I’m going to write down a nine digit number,” she instructed, “and by the end of this, you’re going to reveal what that number is without seeing what I’ve written. Tonight, you’re the magician, Mr. Puzo.”

She placed the ace face up on the table. “Every time I place a card, you’re going to decide if it’ll keep its position or swap with its neighbor.” She added the two of hearts to the ace, then swapped the three and four before adding them as well. “See that? Keep--” She added the five. “--or swap.” The six and seven swapped. She dropped the eight and the nine one after the other on top, then picked up the deck again. “Got it? Either keep it as is--” The ace dropped again. “--or swap the neighbors.” The four and two swapped and landed on the ace. The woman picked up the three and added them back to her hand under the others.

“I’ve got it,” he confirmed, curious despite himself. He watched her write a number on a cocktail napkin hidden behind her hand and turn it over under a champagne flute before he could make out her writing. “How long are we shuffling?” he asked before starting.

“As long as you want, magician.”

He ignored her wink and glanced around one more time for Elizabeth. “All right. Swap.”

They ran through the shuffling a number of times, and he finally called it at nine, the symmetry feeling right to him. She didn’t seem to mind the time, might not have even minded had he kept going, but he felt anxious to move on with his night. When she placed the cards down one by one, they came out with the number 357,689,142.

“You see that?” she said. She pulled out the napkin and slid it across the table. “Congratulations, you’re a wizard.”

Sure enough, the napkin read the same, 357,689,142. Vittorio couldn’t help his smile. “That’s very good,” he told her. “How did you do it?”

“Magic, obviously. Oh, hi, Betty! Guess who’s here to see you,” the girl sang.

Turning quickly, Vittorio spotted a tall blonde in precarious heels striding toward them. He nearly didn’t recognize her under the glamorous makeup--golden lipstick and rainbow eyeshadow, things he’d seen on many women over the years but never on her. She looked...pretty. Beautiful, as always, but more obviously to those not paying attention so close. A woman like her looking like that in a place like this? How could he not stare?

Elizabeth stopped next to the blackjack table and gave him an uneasy smile. “Mr. Puzo. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

He couldn’t tell how much of it was a lie, if not the whole line. “You as well, Miss Col--”

“Stop,” she hissed, glancing around in a panic. “Don’t call me that. If anyone here finds out you know me, they’ll take me away again, and I really can’t let that happen. Not now.” When he nodded to confirm, she relaxed and sat down on the nearest stool, her long legs crossed so her foot brushed his ankle.

Vittorio looked past her to the bar along the back wall where Stella was chatting up a gaggle of showgirls. “What should I call you?” he asked, strangling the emotion from his voice. Peggy must have heard the struggle because she turned away with a forced cough.

Elizabeth ignored her. “Just call me Betty,” she said. “Pretend I’m flirting. Maybe smile?”

He cracked a brief smile and leaned in closer. “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

“I need your help,” she said, brushing past his question. “You’re here for the Assembly? I know Juliano brought friends from New York; are you one of them?”

The question was straightforward enough, but he sensed a double meaning behind it. “Yes,” he replied, “and no. I am here for the Assembly, but I’m no friend to your boss, a fact he’s well aware of.”

“Good. He’s no friend of mine either. Are you planning on taking him out?”

His heart stopped. How did she know about that? “That depends,” he said calmly. “Did you fix the game in favor of your friend the other night?”

Her brow pinched in confusion. “What has that got to do with it?”

“He’s not familiar to me. I can appreciate having a type, Miss Betty, but you don’t strike me as a girl eager to play favorites in a place like this. Tell me who he is and what interest he has in my weekend plans, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Elizabeth hummed, sliding a delicate finger up his hand on the table until her fingernail came to a stop on his watch, tapping the smooth glass surface. “He’s a reporter. From New York. I’m surprised you don’t know him, actually; we worked together at the Gotham Times before my untimely disappearance.” She smiled wryly. “To be fair, I didn’t know him when I fixed the game. And, I suppose, I didn’t really know you either.”

“You knew I was associated with Juliano and worried for your safety had I reported anything out of the ordinary. I understand.” It stung a little, though he had no right to hurt feelings over her reaction. Any one of these girls might do the same with less information. He wondered if a simple visit from a friend had truly changed her mind; how much could she really trust one mafia man over another?

In her eyes, he found the question reflected back at him. Neither party knew how to proceed until Peggy broke the silence.

“So are we friends now?” she cut in. “‘Cause if this goes on any longer, I’m gonna lose out on my tips for the night, and Serena’s been on my ass to pay her back for the dress I ripped last week. You alright, Betty?”

Elizabeth scrutinized him a moment longer. “I’m swell, Peggy. The table’s all yours.” Standing, she brushed her hand over his wrist once again, this time leaving a tiny folded paper under the face. She leaned in close and whispered, “Meet me tomorrow if you’re interested, Mr. Puzo.”

Vittorio was having a very hard time focusing on anything besides her soft breath on his ear, the blonde hair tickling his cheek, those damn legs so close to his. Unable to form a coherent reply in time, he nodded and stared hard at the space she had just occupied until she finally left, melting back into the crowd.

Peggy gave a low whistle, picking up her cards again to shuffle. “Good thing your friend’s still hanging around the bar,” she said with a laugh in her voice. “You’re gonna need the tallest drink we got.”


	7. Chapter 7

“He’s not gonna show,” Davis said, spinning his hat on top of the bottle of wine again. Charlotte had mostly placed it there for decoration, but the reporter seemed to be going for a record now. She briefly wondered which would break first, the record or her patience.

“He’ll show,” Elizabeth insisted. “I’m certain of it.”

She had parked herself at one of the display windows, sipping her tea while watching each car driving by like an obsession. Charlotte stood behind the counter, her ridiculous uniform clinging to her skin in ways her aviator jacket never had bothered too, watching Elizabeth watch everything else. She kept catching the woman glancing her way--or she thought she did, anyway, her old friend was nothing if not subtle--and turning back before Charlotte could tell whether the look was at her or at the unfamiliar sight of her in a skirt.

“He better show,” Davis continued. “We’re risking our asses by showing up at the same place twice. Did he say he was coming?”

“I told him to meet me at this address on this day if he wanted to help,” she said again, this time sounding irritated.

“You didn’t give him a time?”

“No. I didn’t. I forgot, okay, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Right.” Davis rolled his eyes and spun the hat one more time. “Of all times to get stuck on some--”

“Oh, come off it, Edmund,” Charlotte retorted. “She’s not stupid. There’s more at stake here for her than either of us.” She nodded firmly at Elizabeth. “If she says he’ll show, he’ll show. Play the waiting game and find out.”

He slumped back in his seat, dejected. “I hate waiting.”

Elizabeth started to respond, her lips quirking up with some sly joke, and the bell above the door chimed.

In walked a tall, pale man in a long, dark coat. He wore black leather gloves, a brimmed black hat, and a shadowy gray tie with a silver tie pin, a blood red ruby set in the center. His suit looked immaculately cut, tailored to his frame. Charlotte knew a tailored suit when she saw one, remembering her departed father as somewhat of a connoisseur of good suits. Vittorio Puzo wore this suit better than her father ever pretended to wear his, proud, quiet, and foreboding as a raven in a churchyard.

He inclined his head toward Elizabeth and offered a hand to a wary Davis. “Mr. Smith. I gather you’re a friend of Miss Colvin’s.”

Davis shook his hand, suddenly grim and serious. “That I am. Call me Davis.”

Puzo raised an eyebrow. “Not Edmund Davis, owner of the Gotham Times? Nevada is quite a long trip to make for a friend.”

“What can I say? She’s a good friend.”

Charlotte sighed in a long-suffering manner and gestured to the clock. “Can we move this along, chaps? We haven’t got all day before this becomes conspicuous,” she warned.

The tall man’s gaze finally rested on her. She looked back at him hard, refusing to break eye contact first, a tactic she’d used many times back at university and with the pilots she trained alongside; men, she found, were far less comfortable with a woman looking them in the eye than a woman flying a plane. To his credit, he didn’t seem fazed by her in the slightest.

“You must be Miss Harris,” he said. “My sister’s quite the fan.”

“And you’re not?” she asked. Elizabeth smirked, hiding it quickly behind her hand.

Puzo held out a hand to her with the same carefully emotionless air he’d harbored with Davis. “I prefer boats to planes myself, but even I found myself impressed by your transatlantic flight. You’re a stellar pilot,” he told her, as casually as discussing the menu behind her.

“Did you work with my father?” she blurted before he turned away.

He hesitated. “No,” he replied after a heartbeat. “I knew the councilman before he passed, but we never worked together. I’m sorry for your loss,” he added.

“I’m not,” she lied. His expression doubted her, but he didn’t mention it and she moved away from the cash register to sit on the table by Elizabeth. Her ears flushed an adorable pink; Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek to keep the grin off her face. Even in a situation as nutty as this, the woman could manage to be embarrassed by anything. She badly wanted to tease her about it--maybe another time if the chance came back around. “Did you tell him our plan?” she asked instead.

“Not everything,” she replied. “Mr. Puzo, we know you want to take Juliano out this weekend. I invited you here to offer our help.”

The tall man considered the three of them, his face betraying no first impressions. “You’re clearly all capable in your own ways. Why would I need your help?”

“We’ve got ways in even you don’t,” Davis answered boldly. “Colvin works right inside the joint, I’ve reserved the room right under the bastard’s all week, and Harris has info from the councilman about anything that might go down on Juliano’s end the night of.”

Charlotte shot him a stern look. “It’s not that extensive, Davis. Not to mention he died a year ago, plans most likely changed since then.”

“Not necessarily.” Puzo removed his long coat and hat, sitting across the table from Davis. He gave the hat on the wine bottle a moment’s stare before turning back to the conversation. “Francesco is a man of habit. He always stays in the penthouse, always keeps a girl in the room as cover, always makes plans layered in plans so each of his associates only know pieces. Any information is likely good information--forgive me, Miss Harris, but dead men keep secrets best. With all the change the Juliano family has undergone this year, the councilman’s information may be the only constant.”

Elizabeth nodded, her reporter face already in action. “I know a few girls who know his men; I’m sure they can snoop for more if you need it.” She frowned suddenly. “Juliano checked in alone. No one’s been up to his rooms that we’ve seen and he’s barely been on the casino floor. Does he usually leave his girlfriend behind during the Assembly?”

Puzo barely looked surprised by the news. “He’s been on the run for nearly a year. I think you’ll find any woman hard-pressed to stick around a man like that. He won’t show up alone to the actual meeting, which means he’ll choose one of the workers. Has he had an eye on anyone you know of?”

“Like I said, he’s barely left the hotel. I don’t think he’s seen any of us long enough to guess.”

“What’s his usual?” Davis interrupted. “Never met a man without a type--blondes get me every time,” he added with a wink at Elizabeth who rolled her eyes as if on cue. “If I were a betting man, I’d say he prefers redheads.”

She scoffed, mostly playacting. “Why’s that? You heard in a movie all mafia guys like redheads?”

“I don’t know about all mafia guys, but I’m sure you and Puzo can talk about that after.”

The other man cleared his throat before the banter could turn on him. “A stereotype many of us live up to, including Francesco. Keep an eye on your friend Peggy. I’m sure she would be well aware of any new attention he paid her--”

“As would everyone else,” she replied, a bit sour. “She’s not exactly a subtle girl when there’s news to rub in someone’s sorry mug.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Davis sighed.

“I love Peggy to death, Davis, but honestly? She’s more likely after your bank account.”

“You say that like it’s a deal breaker.”

Now Charlotte had to cut in on the argument. “So we have all this information and plenty of ways to use it. Did you have an actual plan any of that will help with?” she asked Puzo.

He stayed silent for a long minute, long enough to annoy her more than the quiet bickering still ongoing between the two reporters. Charlotte had never been comfortable with silence; she preferred to do things, go places, surround herself with a variety of noise at all times. She missed her plane more with every passing tick of the clock.

“Well?” she finally demanded.

Puzo stood again and walked to the window. He made a signal between the barely parted curtains to whoever had been watching from the sidewalk, then shut them more closely. “We have planning to do if any part of this is going to work. Miss Harris, how familiar are you with mixing drinks?”


	8. Chapter 8

As it turned out, Charlotte knew next to nothing about mixing drinks. Elizabeth knew some, but she wasn’t much for fancy drinks, and it had been too soon since the end of Prohibition for her to really consider taking up the interest. Davis turned out the most competent, to everyone’s surprise--”I could be a hooligan if I wanted to, Colvin, don’t you make that face at me!”--so the job of teaching the pilot everything she needed to get a bartending position at the Roman Lily fell immediately on his shoulders.

“Elizabeth already works in the pits,” she pointed out initially. “Why do I need to be in there?”

“Miss Colvin has access to the casino and the restricted areas behind it, but it would be extremely suspicious if she was found in the hotel area. The bartenders serve both the casino and the private rooms of high rollers and Juliano’s personal guests, myself and Davis included,” Puzo explained. “You will have access to more of the playing field than any of us. Not to mention, how many times have you spoken without thinking in front of the help?”

The pilot sputtered for a bit, clearly remembering some embarrassing moment doing just that. Seeing her stumble for once over something so innocent brought a fond smile to Elizabeth’s face. She had missed her friends and her easy nature around them, missed them to the point of forgetting the bad parts that had led her to missing them. Even Davis’ irritating charm gave her heart pangs to think about how long she went without it.

The plan had to work. She couldn’t lose these precious friends again.

While she thought, Puzo sat beside her quietly, watching Charlotte and Davis work through different drinks and mixing terminology. She caught her gaze wandering to his profile without her noticing several times over too short a time period to pass as boredom. Her mind wandered as well; why was he helping her? He knew her barely more than a stranger and already he’d saved her life twice, so why try for three? To get a better shot at Juliano? With what little she knew about him, rescuing damsels in distress didn’t seem like a common activity beyond her own scrapes. Why go through the trouble to save some nobody girl?

“If you have questions, you can ask them,” he said without warning. Her head snapped up to look right at him in surprise, but he didn’t so much as acknowledge her. “You may find I’m not quite an open book, but I don’t lie. What would you like to know?”

Elizabeth laughed, trying to keep her voice light and her heartbeat steady. “Who says I have questions?” she replied coolly.

He responded with an unimpressed look. “A reporter without questions? I don’t believe such a thing exists. Ask away.”

She chewed her lip, considering the offer. It wouldn’t likely come again, and wasn’t she just thinking of asking? Finally, she settled on a lingering one. “Did you ever get your sister out of the Metropolitan Hospital?”

Her mentioning his sister seemed to catch him off guard. “Stella? Yes. The day we met, I was coming to take her home.” He added “She came with me on this trip, actually. I’m surprised you remember.”

“I remember everything,” she teased. “I’m glad, though. That place was horrible.”

He nodded. “I never should have sent her there. At the time, I thought it would help.”

“Help with what?”

The man looked at her solemnly. “It’s not my place to say. She came with me for the week if you’d like to meet her.” He hesitated, looking away. “I don’t regret much of what I’ve done for business, but sending Stella away…that was a mistake. She keeps me grounded. Stops me from doing more things I may come to regret.”

“Things like this?” she suggested wryly.

“Not exactly. What makes you think I’ll regret this?”

“Well, for starters, you hardly know us. How do you know we’re not working for Juliano? Maybe he’s trying to take you out before you get a shot at him.”

He chuckled darkly. “I’ve had my chances, likely more than he’s had. For now, Francesco needs me to keep the peace between our families; killing me after no offense would certainly put him in a bad spot, particularly after recent events.”

“You mean the hit on Maranzano?”

All humor drained from the man’s face, leaving him as grave as when he’d entered the shop. “I meant your article connecting him with Councilman Harris and the man’s staged suicide. Your friend may not know the details behind her father’s passing, but I can guarantee the Juliano family ordered it after the truths you uncovered became troublesome to clean up, and not just for Francesco. Do you know why he left you alive?”

Truthfully, Elizabeth had tried not to think about it. She still wasn’t sure if gratitude was appropriate for letting her live the way she had; hearing they’d kept her around for a purpose felt infinitely more terrifying than being dragged to a Vegas casino and forgotten. Perhaps wishful thinking had finally dampened her panic and convinced her being under Juliano’s thumb meant she had escaped danger. “No,” she told Puzo, “and this may be the only time I say this, but I don’t want to know. By the end of the week, Juliano will be in a hole in the ground and I’ll be home and not have to think about any of this ever again.”

“You don’t seem the type,” Puzo mused, and turned his attention back to Charlotte and Davis who were now arguing over the best way to pour shots.

She stared at his profile, irritation edging in. “The type for what?”

“Running away.”

She protested indignantly, “You’d rather I stay here? Leaving isn’t the same as running away.”

“Of course not. I mean running from answers,” he clarified. “I was under the impression you were a journalist. Wanting to know is part of your job description.”

“Yeah? My job seems to have a new description these days. Not to mention chasing down answers is what got me in this mess in the first place.”

“That never stopped you before.”

“I never got myself kidnapped before.”

“ _ You _ didn’t do anything,” he said, matching her frustrated tone. “Forgive me, Miss Colvin, but it sounds like you think this is your fault. What makes you think this has anything to do with you beyond your article?”

“Forgive  _ me _ , Mr. Puzo, but didn’t you just say I was left alive for a reason?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“Oh, very mature,” she grumbled. This whole conversation was ridiculous in the first place. Hadn’t she told Peggy Mafia men were trouble? Maybe she hadn’t meant this kind of trouble, but it certainly fit the profile.

Puzo let her stew in silence for the longest minute of her life before answering his own question. “Killing you would have left a body. It’s not criminal for a woman to pick up and leave with no indication of where she went; murder is a different story. Anything less than dragging you across the country would have caused further problems for the family, and Francesco is in hot enough water without bringing down a direct investigation on his head.”

Elizabeth looked over at Charlotte measuring different liquors in a tall jar. The woman laughed at something inaudible from Davis, causing her to spill the alcohol across the counter to the loud dismay of her tutor. “That didn’t stop them from dealing with the councilman,” she quietly reminded him.

“Councilman Harris was under extreme pressure even before your article hit the papers. After the hit his career took by that information in the public eye, it hardly mattered if anyone believed it--he was finished. If you didn’t know the truth, would you have questioned his suicide?”

She had to admit she wouldn’t. “Why not do the same to me? Editors weren’t exactly lining the streets to offer me a job. I could have--”

“You attacked the councilman, not the Juliano family. Randomly killing people who do things you don’t like is, shockingly, frowned upon even in our circle. If Francesco had taken it upon himself to get rid of you, after the mess you made? He’d be dead or missing long before now.”

“So he spared me to ensure you all would spare him. How generous,” she summarized wryly.

“Take it as comfort,” Puzo suggested. “If everything works as it should, Francesco won’t give a damn where you are and all other evidence will lead back to me. You can go back to not wanting to know, completely worry-free.”

The second time he said it, Elizabeth caught the tiny shift in his tone, enough of a laugh to clue her in on the joke. “Right. Worry-free, like I’ve always been. You know, for a Mafia boss, you’re a real--”

“She’s ready to go, ladies and gentlemen!” Davis crowed, collapsing backwards in the chair on her other side, his arms hugging the frame to keep himself steady. He gestured with a flourish at Charlotte walking carefully toward them with a tray balanced in one hand. “One fine bartender coming right up!”

The aviator flashed her a cheerful grin. “In the mood for drinks, Colvin? Best way to get to know new coworkers from what I hear.”

Elizabeth knew whatever Charlotte said would make her blush, so she replied quickly without thinking to hide it. “You do know the bartenders have to wear the uniform too, right? Ears and all.”

Davis barked a laugh and ducked away from Charlotte’s oncoming slap. “Please tell me she gets a tail too?” he asked gleefully.

“Keep talking and you won’t live to find out,” she threatened back.

Puzo interrupted before either one could make things worse. “My sister, Stella, will be on the floor as well as a guest. She and my man Nino will coordinate our movements to ensure this goes smoothly. Miss Colvin, are you allowed timepieces in the pits?”

She shook her head. “No watches of any kind are allowed outside employee quarters. The point is to make guests lose their sense of time so they play longer; kinda kills the mood if your dealer keeps checking the clock.”

“How do you know when your shift ends?” Charlotte chimed in.

“The pit boss,” Puzo replied, “or your replacement. If they’re not paying attention or stand you up, you keep going until someone swaps you out.”

“That’s horrible,” Charlotte insisted.

“That’s illegal,” Davis amended.

“That’s business,” Elizabeth and Puzo explained at once. She looked away uncomfortably and Puzo continued with only brief hesitation. “You can champion working conditions in Mafia businesses another day, Mr. Davis, and I will happily assist in whatever way I can. This week, I need all your focus on Francesco’s men--what table they prefer, which women they’ve got eyes for, the routes they take from the front door to the hotel entrance--anything you find can be useful. Play against as many as you can and I’ll write you a check for whatever you lose,” he offered gravely.

“While I appreciate the vote of confidence in my poker skills, I’ve got it covered,” the reporter assured him. “How am I to tell the bad guys apart from the regulars?”

Elizabeth raised a hand to her heart. “Any men willingly working for the Juliano family at the Roman Lily have a white lily pinned to their lapels here. With his ego, Juliano will probably have every man with him wearing one.” She looked back at Puzo for confirmation and smiled at his quick nod.

“If there’s one thing he has plenty of, it’s certainly ego,” he agreed drily. “Miss Harris, your primary role will be the night of the Assembly, but I want you doing the same research at the bar. Anything you overhear or they tell you directly, report it back to either Stella or Miss Colvin. How often can you come here?” he asked her directly.

She bit her lip, weighing her options. “Davis can bring me probably one more time without looking suspicious. Could we meet at the hotel?”

Davis grinned. “Mr. Smith never turns down a sweet girl in need of company,” he assured her gallantly. “Honestly, with how fast we’ve been going, the girls backstage probably think it’s about time.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Charlotte chided. “Puzo, what’s all this intel for? It sounds like we’re planning a heist, not an assassination.”

“She has a point,” Davis agreed. “I mean, Juliano shot up a whole theatre trying to take you out last year. Not that I don’t appreciate the classier take, but wouldn’t it be easier to return the favor?”

“Messier doesn’t mean easier,” Puzo said grimly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, last year’s attempt failed. I intend to ensure this one doesn’t.”

Elizabeth stared at the man beside her. The theatre shootout...had that really been an attempt on Puzo’s life? She remembered seeing him that night, remembered him pulling her away from a stray bullet, sending her home with Nino and zero explanations. More than that, she remembered herself pulling him away to a safer hiding spot, babbling away about heaven knows what, trying to ignore her heart pounding too loud from adrenaline and fear and the warmth his hands left on her arms before he let her go. He had said something about needing to listen, about her being around him putting her in danger, but he’d never mentioned the whole affair was a failed assassination.

He noticed her staring and turned with a questioning tilt to his chin. She looked away fast, focusing instead on the shot glass Charlotte was handing her. “What’s this?” she asked, desperate for a subject change.

“Bee’s Knees,” Davis announced before her. “It’s sweet so you don’t taste how awful the gin is.”

“Are we celebrating already?” She raised a dubious eyebrow at the pale yellow liquid. It didn’t look like liquor so much as strangely thick lemonade. “In my experience, that usually jinxes whatever we celebrate,” she reminded him.

“I don’t believe in jinxes,” he informed her. “Toast with me or I’ll make you drink two.”

Never before had she toasted anyone so fast. Throwing back the honeyed gin, Elizabeth wished hard for a real success, something concrete she could celebrate on the trip back to New York in Charlotte’s plane. She nodded a thanks to Puzo, squeezed Charlotte’s hand as a goodbye, and followed Davis outside to his car, the smooth blue finish glowing under the lamplight. Silently, she made herself a promise: by the week’s end, either Puzo sent Juliano to his early grave, or she’d finish the job herself.


End file.
